Tamna Noc
by ThePreciousHeart
Summary: GTA IV fic. After getting the revenge he so desperately wanted, Niko wonders if this was the right thing to do.


**AN: Recently finished watching a playthrough of GTA IV and had to get this slice of angst out of my system. I feel that it's more realistic for Niko to have killed Darko, though I realize that's up to the player's choice. "Tamna Noc" is supposed to be Serbian for "dark night" (although it should have an accent above the C but I'm not sure how to write that on this site), as in dark night of the soul.**

* * *

Twelve shots.

One in the stomach. One through each lung. One to shatter the collarbone and one to splinter the ribcage. One in the diaphragm, the intestines, the liver. And four in the black, rotting cavern that couldn't be said to hold a heart.

Rain spattered against the windshield, the wipers furiously pumping in rhythm, but while Niko Bellic sat behind the wheel, his mind was far gone. Each shot resounded impersonally through his ears. Before his eyes, he saw blood oozing from the huddled body on the ground, mingling with the first drops of rain on the asphalt. Instead of a steering wheel, he felt that his fingers were wrapped around a pistol's trigger, requiring only slight pressure to fire off a round. How easily he'd applied that pressure. _Bang bang BANG_, until his gun was bereft of bullets, and Darko's life was over.

So many lives Niko had ended, from those less deserving than Darko, to the ones who gave him a run for his money. Killing had been a part of his daily routine ever since the war had destroyed him. He'd looked into a man's bloodshot eyes and defiant sneer and marked him dead a thousand times over. This time was no different.

But he didn't understand, because this time was _supposed_ to be different. No other man Niko had killed in the past had it coming for as long as Darko had. No other man had earned himself twelve shots.

One for Dmitar. One for Dragan. One for Goran. One for Mijo. One each for Emil, Aleksej, Lujo. One for Oleg, one for Ristan, one for Ivo, one for Danilo. And finally, one for Isak.

Driving in Liberty City tended to be hell, even without a deluge from above, or the circular progression of wild and nasty thoughts that whipped at the back of Niko's neck. Tonight, though, he'd risk a crash. He even came close to welcoming it. A crash would hurt, but hurting was _something_. Anything to replace the droning numbness surrounding him, closing down on him. Anything to block out the memories. Until now, they'd only surfaced late at night, rising to the forefront of his subconscious until he awoke cold with sweat. But here Niko was, wide awake, and the memories were chasing him. He saw the faces and heard the names of the ones he'd left behind, whose lives Darko had ripped away for drug money.

Fifteen boys, off to war. Fifteen boys who'd suited up, grabbed weapons, and headed off to shoot, blow up, and otherwise obliterate the targets that their officers had forced on them. Some of their heads were stuffed with proud, glorious delusions. Some glowered and sulked and dragged their feet through the mud, and some wept late at night when they thought no one was awake, their bone-deep fear palpable in the air.

All were young, and stupid, and _human._ All had spoken reverently of what they'd do once it was all over, and they made it back home. No one suggested that _home_ no longer existed, not in the way they remembered it, or in the way they needed it to be. They dreamed naively of sunny pastures, of money lining their pockets, of love and beauty inexplicably surviving their country's deadly assault.

Twelve of them never lived to reach those dreams. Not Dmitar, the village's darling, whose innocent features stirred feelings of protection from just about everyone he met. Not Dragan, whose frequent attempts to relieve each difficult situation sometimes made up for his non-stop bragging about the girl he'd left back home. Not Goran, stoic and clenching his teeth, who'd feared death more than any of them but never, ever let it show. Not Mijo, who'd made multiple drunken promises to sacrifice himself before he let anything happen to the rest of his squad. Not Emil, and not…

A pure adrenaline jolt went through Niko as he slammed the brake pedal, just barely scraping the car in front of him. His sudden halt earned him an angered roar from the horn of the car behind him, but it wasn't enough to bring him to life. The memories were frozen images now, as silent as his car's interior. One hand trembled, until Niko clenched the steering wheel, forcing it to stop.

He knew he shouldn't dwell further. This was not the place for wallowing in emotion. Besides, he was sick of it. Not a day went by when he didn't think about them, all twelve boys who'd lost so much for so little. But Niko couldn't set the memories aside, because they were all he had left of his friends.

Killing Darko hadn't erased the memories. Niko hadn't wanted or expected that. But surely, surely he should feel _something_, other than the rage that had convinced him to pull the trigger, other than the sense of loss ringing hollow in his chest...

The car honked again, and Niko started, realizing dully that the light had changed and his path was clear. He accelerated, his tires hissing against the wet pavement.

Just as he had passed the intersection, it came to him in a sudden flash.

Darko wasn't the revenge Niko had been seeking, because it wasn't really Darko who had ruined him. It was the greedy, foolish bastards who'd convinced him that enlisting to fight would be a good thing. They'd taught Niko how to hold a gun, but they hadn't taught him how to let go of one.

At last, grief flooded into Niko's pores, as if switching from black and white to vivid Technicolor. His throat constricted around a sharp edge. He wasn't sure who he was mourning- his fallen comrades, or his past self. _Perhaps both, at once._

Grief was hardly a comfort, as it was such an old, familiar pain that it barely felt like anything anymore. After the day that Niko had hauled each of his friends' bodies from the pit into which they'd been thrown, examining their features one by one until he was convinced of the traitor's identity, he hadn't thought he'd ever be able to feel pain again. But it was an improvement over the emptiness. It was proof that he still had a heart, as much as he felt like it had been buried along with his friends that day. It was proof that he would never end up like Darko.

With the radio off, Niko's breath sounded unnaturally loud as it scraped past the blockage in his throat. His chest grew heavy, until a sudden flash of anger ignited it. _Stop!_ He'd dealt with his thoughts on his own for years before setting foot in Liberty City, and _now_ he was coming undone? _Stupid._ America had softened him. He ought to suck it up and return to the apartment, as usual. But instead, Niko found himself wishing he hadn't turned around and headed back by himself. Despite his best wishes, he needed company.

Fifteen boys had gone to war, and only three came back. One who'd deserved the same fate to which he had condemned his so-called friends. One who'd thought he'd be happy to deliver said fate. And one– just one– who had defied expectations and set aside his past.

_Why was it so easy for him, but not for me?_

What made Bernie's will to live happily so strong? His words began to echo in Niko's ears, drowning out the imaginary sound of gunshots."_That's good, Niks. You can let go of it now. You have a new life in America. Forget the past."_

_Would that it were so simple._ The images of Niko's slaughtered brethren, and his absolute contempt for the one who had tricked and betrayed them, were imprinted on his soul. They would last inside him forever, and he could do nothing to change that.

But… maybe he didn't have to change anything. What had happened during the war was a permanent part of him, but he was no longer a part of it.

_"You have a new life in America."_ A new life, and new friends… and old family.

Niko emerged from his muddled head to find that he was a block away from the apartment. The rain was clearing up, the windshield wipers swiping at invisible droplets. Turning them off, Niko pulled up to the curb and stared down the lonely street. Aside from a single man on the sidewalk, confidently lighting a cigarette, no one was around. With the car windows up, muffling the outside noise, Liberty City felt like a ghost town. The absurd thought made Niko chuckle dryly. _Only an apocalypse could cause that to happen._

Eventually, his fingers sought out the phone he'd buried in his jacket pocket. He wasn't entirely aware of his actions until he had selected the right contact.

"Niko!"

"Roman," Niko responded, his voice astonishingly steady. "Are you still at Brucie's?"

"Yes," Roman replied, sounding slightly puzzled. "Is something wrong?"

Niko exhaled deeply, his eyes closing, as the image of Darko's blood spilling onto the ground slowly faded to black. "It's nothing." Nothing that he hadn't felt before. He pulled away from the curb.

"I just wanted to know… Have you got room for one more?"

Warmth saturated Roman's voice, rolling through Niko's eardrums and ever-so-carefully edging his emptiness away. "Of course, cousin. You never have to ask."

"Good." For the first time that day- perhaps for the first time in weeks- a soft, genuine smile touched Niko's face. He was surprised to find that its presence did not surprise him. "I'll see you soon."


End file.
